October Theme: Beat Poetry

The theme for October is Beat Poetry.

Poets are welcome to interpret and incorporate the theme as they wish; the style is not intended as a limiting factor, but instead as an inspiration that may help authors explore beyond normal subject matter and styles of writing. Judging, as always, will be up to forum members with the suggested criteria of:

1. How unique, interesting and enjoyable was the poem?
2. Were the technical aspects (quality of writing) successful?
3. Was the theme used in a way that improved the overall work?

For examples, I suggest Howl (the definitive beat poem) or Sunflower Sutra (a bit more accessible) by Allan Ginsberg, or Mexico City Blues by Jack Kerouac.

This theme is intended to be inspirational, not limiting. Interpret it as fits yourself and your own style, or respond to it with another. The authors mentioned above would be the first to tell you not to stress about style or convention, that there is no 'right way', so have fun with this!

Please submit all entries via email to contest-entries@hotmail.com. Entries will be posted anonymously in this thread as they are recieved.

If you have any questions, please feel free to ask here, or send me a pm!

The hip shift, cock of the walk, like the tick of a clock,
Gear of the pelvis as the moment passes, man. Dig the manner
Of the move, all high-stepping with her ass twitched up,
Black skirt nasty, shredded stockings, shredded smile,
She's that. Tits embraced -- each to their separate cup --
Tops fondled by the shag of her dark swag, hair the color
Of a raven, you know? I'm on her like heartbeats, like the banner
Of a distant nation, like the old dead Bard's rhyming style.
She digs the sound of my lock.

We split to the crazy, me in hazy wine and bitter coffee,
She with cider and the needle. We share a smoke outside her pad;
Drift inside. She shows me her cigarette scars. I recite bars
I've been 86'd from. We groove to the dulcent, you know, man, jazz.
She cops a thing in a whisper. "Moves me." She digs violence like Mars.
Wrap her wrists in my cheap old belt, tear the nylon skin off her thighs;
She bites her lips, sighs, calls me "Bastard" in a softening voice, border mad.
Says, I'm all she wants, all she loves or needs. I tell her I'm all she has.
When we fuck, man, she tastes like candy, sweet and slick, dissolving toffee.

the road howls in its hard macadamised pain
as heavy traffic presses it back into the ground below
but the greater hurt
is the cheap whores' high heels
digging into the heat-soft surface

a road can only go so far

nancy straightens her stockings
tops showing beneath her pelmet skirt
the heat
her sweat showing through her blouse
her areola's showing through her sweat-damp blouse
no bra
no support
no money unless some
dirty sex-deprived bank manager
asks for depraved sex in a back alley
her back alley
if she can manage it

for money she will suck and blow
for money she will bend over
for money she will give you
the best knee-trembler you've ever had
she's an artist a professional
she takes pride in her work

for money she will manage it
but only for lust not love
a girl can only go so far
and will never kiss

and I sit alone and jerk
proud that I've never paid for sex
in my lonely stinking room
damp wallpaper hanging from the wall
staring out of dirt-grimed windows
hating the Dirty Old Town
i’m stuck in
hating mccoll for writing it

hating the road i’m on
hating nancy
hating myself
hating salford




they’ve cleaned it up now
building sites and half-demolished buildings
new roads
new houses – little boxes
all made of ticky-tacky
and all looking just the same

no smoke in the sky
just petrol fumes
and acid rain
and mcdonalds cartons everywhere
and vomit drying on pavements
from last night’s beer and curry binge

nancy has moved on now
she got pregnant
and her daughter now walks the same streets
and takes her punters to cheap motels
where they drink cheap wine
and have oral
and anal

crude but better than virtual
better than cybering on the internet

but salford
salford remains
the remains of salford
and the sirens
of the police cars
the ambulances
the fire-engines
scream through the buildings
telling everyone that the world carries on
living
and dying
and burning

the road howls
and salford screams